Have yourself a merry little Christmas
by Sachita
Summary: Christmas for him had always meant an empty apartment, a lonely TV, a treacherous answering-machine - because, really, who had deleted all his calls? Just like that Rodney had always managed to find an excuse. John Sheppard however, found that Christmas held emptiness for him also, but he embraced it because he had always liked to face rather than avoid hard realities. Reposted.
_Hi there, this is my second Stargate Atlantis fic. I realise it isn't Christmas now; however, I posted this before and now reposted it with some slight edits. I do hope you like it! Best, Sachita
_

 _No copyright infringement intended._

 _Summary_ _: Sometimes Christmas isn't the happiest season of the year. A look at John's and Rodney's Christmases before and finally their first one in Atlantis._

* * *

 **Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas**

 _ **Colorado Springs, CO, USA, 24th December 2002**_

Dr. Rodney McKay, PhD Phd and self-proclaimed genius, couldn't find his apartment keys. He stopped with a little irritated huff to set his laptop bag down and to start searching his pockets. Just as he had located them in the depths of his breast pocket, the door opposite of his was opened with a bang. Rodney could only look on in bemused surprise, as, in a flurry of hair and fur, a squirming cat was placed in his arms. "Don't take a fortnight to return next time," the annoyed voice of his neighbor informed him. "Your cat has the tendency to scratch."

"Well, I-"Rodney started, but the woman simply shot him another furious glance and the door was slammed shut. "- thanks for looking after it," he ended lamely. "Oh and by the way Merry Christmas!" he yelled at the door. He had had a crappy day, too, so why did she go blaming hers on him? "And cats _do_ tend to scratch, you know, didn't someone _ever_ tell you that?" Hell, he hoped she hadn't heard that last one. He still needed her to look after his cat in the future. Speaking of which, the cat, always uncomfortable with being carried around, let alone being _cuddled_ , let out a meow and tore at his shirt sleeves.

"Here we go, Newton," he mumbled and set him down. Newton merely glared at him and stalked somewhat arrogantly past him as he opened the door.

It was all like he had left it- the crumpled chips bag in the corner, the rumpled clothes thrown carelessly over the chair standing lonely in the middle of the room.

"Home sweet home," Rodney muttered, though it felt like an unintentional pun.

He sighed, moved in, wondering what on earth he was supposed to do. Of course, there were still papers to be looked through, tons of data to be analyzed and of course the two or three books he had been working on publishing for the last five, if not ten years. He sat down and made a half-hearted attempt to get to work on some theories for making some of their power sources more compatible with Ancient technology, but found in the end that he couldn't do it. He had read over the same equation five times now. It was pointless.

Getting up, he wandered through the room, trying to work out what was bothering him. It was not like he had asked to be here, it was not like he had wanted to be here. He couldn't understand how they couldn't have allowed him to stay at the Stargate Center for the day. It was not like he invented equations that might save a few lives; he invented equations that might save the whole planet! But no, no, of course they had to come and drag him away from his crucially important work! Rodney suddenly stopped pacing and sighed, deflated. The trouble was- they- she- hadn't meant it in a bad way. She was Samantha Carter, of course. Smart beautiful witty Sam Carter, whom he had a hopeless crush on. Hopeless in every way, not only in the obvious. He found himself remembering Sam's words. Her blue eyes had been intent. "It's Christmas Eve, Rodney. Go home. Call your family." He had not replied, hadn't been able to bring himself to say anything, not when the look in her eyes was so desolate. He had been called insensitive at best, a lot of other things at worst, but he wasn't completely clueless. And so now he was here. Celebrating Christmas. On his own. Now if that didn't sound depressing, he might…it _was_ depressing. Christmas. He didn't care about it. At all. Did he look like someone who would want to belt out off-key Christmas tunes while getting assaulted by sticky chocolate Santas wielded by scary children's hands? Or did he look like he might enjoy digging in a half-burnt turkey? Or going out shopping with his sister and her children on the frenzy of Boxing Day? Surely he did not.

Sam hadn't mean it in a bad way though…Oh yeah. Samantha Carter.

There were many reasons why a relationship between them would never work and as much as he tried to deny it, he couldn't deny to himself that he might be the reason for that. Sam wasn't like him. She was sweet, open and friendly- as well as clever and competent. Rodney was only the latter two. No-one in his right mind would have ever called him friendly, let alone _sweet_. Not as if he wanted to be called _sweet_ anyway.

For a long moment, he stopped and stared, unseeing, out of the window. How was it that he was the way he was? That he kept irritating people, make them leave him alone? Let them be scared off by his harsh manner? Because-

Hell. He needed a drink, only to have something to occupy his hands with. He was by no means a heavy drinker, but he had been told he could hold his liquor. Alcohol had never been important to him, he had rather regarded it as a sort of probability factor: if man x with a genetic disposition to violence has x drinks, then the probability of him murdering person y is so and so proportionally higher than if he only has n drinks. Alright. He nearly laughed out loud at his absurd statement. No, catching murderers or working for the CIA had never held any appeal for him, not as if it had been due to a lack of trying on their part. The petty hate humans held for other humans did not interest him. He was interested in numbers, equations, things that made sense in a beautiful and complete way. Things he could understand. Nature, hell, life was nothing but a concatenation of equations, of functions, some shaped smoothly, others inconstant. Rodney was aware that he could run circles around more than 90 per cent of the world's population. He didn't even mean it in an arrogant way- what good would him being arrogant do if it was only himself here?

Humans were irrational. They operated to a certain extent according to certain reflexes and instinctual behavior patterns, but could control their actions to a larger extent. At least that was what Rodney liked to believe. He liked to believe that he could control himself. Sighing, he sank down on the couch and poured himself a large glass of Brandy. The amber liquid swirled in the glass as he held it up against the dim light of his lamp. Downing it in one gulp with his teeth hitting the rim of the glass, he grimaced as it burned down his throat. Coughing against the unfamiliar feeling- he wasn't sure when he had last had a drink since even though he might be socially inept, he had not progressed to the point of drinking alone in the dark yet- oh hell. Except that he just had. He was pathetic. Rodney snorted back a laugh.

As his held-back laughter filled the silence, he became aware of just how silent it was and he suppressed a shudder. He hated silence. Taking another quick gulp, he shuddered for real. Of course he could always talk to himself. Was he so far gone already?

A smooth object on the table caught his eye. The answering machine. He hit the red button. Rodney knew what it said, had heard it too often already. He could probably imitate it if he wanted to. "Give your answering machine a new unique touch- upgrade it with the intelligent voice of Dr. Rodney McKay and-"

"-You have no new calls," the voice of the answering machine interrupted him smoothly. Rodney shook his head- oh the irony!

Reaching a decision, he poured a bit more of the brandy in his glass and gulped it down. Yes, Rodney McKay operated differently with alcohol in his system, too, though he wasn't about to kill someone. No. He'd try something else instead. Who said that it couldn't work? Sweet, he could be sweet. If he concentrated. Maybe there was a small chance that Sam might…he fetched the phone from its holding place.

If it wouldn't work- No. No. It would work. He was Dr Rodney McKay, genius and she was Samantha Carter, genius right after him. Surely two people who had so much in common would- Alright. Before he could think further of it, he hit the call button.

"Hello."

"Hi- uh- Carter?"

"Yes- it's she. Who is there?"

Didn't she recognize him? His fingers were slippery on the phone and his stomach churned. He was half-torn between ending the call and answering.

"Who is there, please?"

"Uh- hi- Sam. It's me." He could have kicked himself. It's me? What kind of idiot….

"Rodney?" Her voice sounded confused.

"Uh. Yeah."

"Why are you calling?"

Here comes the hard part. "Oh- you see- it's sort of- I mean I had plans today evening, but they were called off and-" God, he was pathetic. Sweat beads started to form on his forehead. What kind of plans? Was he trying to sound like James Bond? "Uh- yes, and since it's Christmas and I was wondering- I mean- would you like to have dinner with me?"

Silence. Desperately, he ploughed on. "It's not like I would cook, wouldn't do that to you, God forbid, but I know a very nice Italian restaurant, where we could- it's not far- I mean and – and-it wouldn't have to be long-just an hour-"

"Rodney." Her voice was gentle and he tried hard to keep the shaking of his hands from creeping into his voice.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry, really, I am, and I would take you up on your offer if I could, but I can't. I have plans already."

"Oh!" He laughed nervously. "Of course you do, how silly of me. " Yeah, of course she did. How silly of him. Stupid more like. Idiotic. Plans with whom? He was absurdly reminded of high school and Aimee Donovan. Beautiful, blonde, smart, witty. He had asked her out once, sweating profusely, pale. She had smiled at him- kindly- that was sort of the problem. He couldn't be properly angry with her if she was kind to him. She had declined politely, saying that she had a date with Jeff Smith. Of course- Jeff, popular, quarterback-type, wild hair and smile…he hadn't stood a chance. So who did Carter have a date with? General Jack O'Neill maybe? 'Cause he'd fit right in with the lot.

Silence on the other end of the line and Rodney's heart beat faster as he heard the echo of his own voice in his ears. "Have- please tell me- I have not said that aloud."

Sam's voice had lost some of its kindness. Of course, basically accusing her of having a thing with her superior would have that effect, he thought hysterically. "Yes, you did, Rodney."

"Can we- can you just forget I ever called you?"

Again silence. Then a single word: "Yes."

"Good, good." He had been half-hoping in a brain-dead way that she would say "No." Somehow that affirmation all made it worse. "Sure, you have plans. I won't keep you. So, have fun. Uh, whatever you do. Good. Gotta go, sorry. Someone's at the door." He pressed her away, before she even had a chance to reply. For a long time after, he just sat there. God- how would he face Carter after this? Sweat was running in his hairline and the alcohol was making his eyes burn. Someone at the door- yeah- right. He got up shakily, used his hands to run through his receding hair, something that irked him terribly.

Detached, he realized that he was shaking and then he did something that he later blamed on the alcohol. He took the phone up again and dialed a different number. Jeannie. His sister whom he hadn't talked to for two years. Written a few cards to, yes, but not talked to. But right now he needed her, because she would listen. Maybe. He was her brother, right? That had to count for something. And it was Christmas. So she did have to be merciful, theoretically speaking.

"Hello, this is Jeannie Miller. I am not in at the moment, please leave a message."

Of course- they were at Aunt Margaret's, as they always were on Christmas Eve. Rodney gave a choked laugh and hung up the phone. Why did that have to happen? Why was he the way he was? Why couldn't people be something other than…like-that for once to him? Because-

He was not enough.

It him like a ton of bricks and he couldn't help but take a step back at this wonderful horrible epiphany. In a bout of helplessness, he imagined that that was how being betrayed by someone you trusted must feel- like a punch to the face. Or maybe how Archimedes had felt when he had discovered how to measure the volume of irregular objects in water. It was a mixture of both, of exhilaration and something else, deeper, darker. Exhilaration because he had finally figured it out, that something else because-

He was not enough. Behind all the equations and formulas he was not enough. Inadequate.

A loud mewl made him start. Newton. Of course. He must be hungry. Taking the feeding bowl to the kitchen to fill it with old, probably long expired cat food, he mused that Newton was one of the best things that had happened to him. Newton's brain was governed by instincts and he was nowhere near human intelligence, but Rodney knew his standing with the cat. Newton was cruel, but not deliberately so, uncaring but not malicious. Newton just was. Rodney had never heard a better excuse for one of their pitiful existences than that and especially not from a human being. He sat the bowl down in front of the cat and resumed his pacing through the room.

Uncomfortable, as if he had trod into a sacred room or had picked up a thing he should have never seen, he took a deep breath. It was still too quiet in here. Much too quiet. He flopped gracelessly down on the couch and turned the TV on.

"Listen to jolly, cheery and old tunes from Christmases past on Christmas Eve while you and your family enjoys your getting-together. And here is Thomas Huston, your host for tonight" the TV blared. Rodney looked at it and snorted, as the image of a waving man, presumably Thomas Huston, made way for an incredibly cheesy Christmas tree, while a woman's voice sung "Jingle Bells". "You know it is originally a festival to celebrate Midwinter?" he asked. Oblivious, the woman continued to sing of bells and sleighing songs. McKay snorted. "Oh, this ignorance must be bliss…"

He eventually fell asleep on the couch to the voice of Frank Sinatra singing "Have yourself a merry little Christmas" from the TV. _Have yourself a merry little Christmas_ , he thought, half-asleep and heavy-lidded as he drifted off. _That's rich_ …

When he woke up again, a red blinking light told him that the TV had gone into automatic standby-mode. The room was dark and empty. He got up and walked over to the window, pushing the curtains aside. It was late and the windows of the other houses and apartments were dark, except for one or two. It snowed outside and there was something about the thick, huge flakes that made Rodney, there, alone in the darkness of his apartment, ache for some unknown reason. He took a hitched breath and stepped back.

"Christmas is overrated," he finally proclaimed loudly to the silence.

The silence didn't answer.

* * *

 _ **Kandahar Air Base, Kandahar, Afghanistan,**_ _**24th December 2002**_

"Roundhouse Zero Six, here Control, do you read? What is your status?"

"Control, here Roundhouse Zero Six. Target has been neutralized, cargo is aboard. I repeat, target has been neutralized, cargo is aboard."

"Roger that. Control out."

Major John Sheppard's look never wavered from their surroundings, as his co-pilot turned away from the radio and grinned widely at him. "Hey, Shep, we can celebrate today."

Sheppard brought the helicopter around in a wide arc, approaching the landing zone of the base from the West. "We can?" he asked nonchalantly, eyes still straight ahead.

"Yeah." Rollins, his co-pilot, smiled even wider if that was possible. "We got all of the guys out, didn't we?"

For the first time, a genuine smile hushed across Sheppard's sharp features. "That we did," he replied quietly. "ETA five minutes."

Rollins nodded and turned to inform the group of Army rangers they had just rescued about their status, then turned back to radio for landing permission. The helicopter landed on the base, just as the sun was setting in the background. It painted the sky blue and red, making it look like it were flames being drowned by a water spurt.

When Sheppard had finished the post-flight check, he got out with stiff legs, rubbing his aching spine. Being cooped up in the helicopter for the best part of the day did not do much for his agility.

"You gettin' old, Shep?"

Sheppard grinned, cuffing his co-pilot's head. "Don't get smart with me, Rollins. I recall you complaining about your coccyx all day long yesterday."  
Rollins smiled indulgently. "At least I didn't trip over a poor fellow pilot who had just fallen himself because he was too stupid to see the large box in the hallway."  
"He's right, you know", another voice chimed in. "Except for the part about me being stupid."

"Oh, not you too Holland, " Sheppard groaned, but a grin threatened to break free. Evening was falling over the base and the air was starting to cool off rapidly. The nights were cool in Afghanistan, often in sub-zero temperatures. Going for a long night stroll was sort of out of the question, even if there weren't Taliban trying to kill them nearby.

"Hey," Rollins said suddenly, excitement gleaming in his blue eyes. "Santa's comin' tomorrow. Have you forgotten?"

"It's Christmas Eve already?" Sheppard asked.

"Yeah. Don't you own a calendar?" Holland quirked an eyebrow.

Sheppard didn't reply and fell back, as his fellow pilots started chatting about calling their families. He did own a calendar, but he never looked at it. Christmas- what did it mean? He wished he wouldn't own a calendar and at the same time he felt damned guilty for even thinking that. The guys were looking forward to getting home- who was he to say otherwise? The States held nothing for him. And it was true that he had found a sort of a purpose here. He could help, could make sure the guys got home to their mothers. He had a purpose. And he had the sky- blue, wide, spotless. It was crazy, he knew, but he felt alive here and hated it at the same time.

He felt alive because of the sky and the wind and the sand. And he felt alive because of the smooth feeling of the controls under his hands, the wide unrelenting blue vastness that greeted him when he pulled the chopper up, spinning, tumbling, dancing. He hated it here because of blood drying already in the sand. He hated it because of kids' terrified eyes, comrades screaming and the worst feeling of all, the crippling feeling of paralyzing helplessness; when he realized that he couldn't do anything to save the downed guys, the screaming children, the sobbing mothers. So he had to be mad for even feeling anything different than revulsion and despair here.

But he couldn't help it. He knew a lot of the guys felt the same. He wasn't doing this for his country, for patriotic reasons. That had never been his motivation, not even when he had joined up. He had joined up for the sky, at first, and later he had realized that he had also joined up for the guys. For his comrades.

Later, standing outside in the relative quiet of the Afghani night only interrupted by the sound of some jeeps rumbling by somewhere past some buildings in the distance and watching the first stars coming out on the cloudless night sky, he continued his musings. No, he didn't miss home. What was home anyway? A quickly-passing cloud on the horizon, nothing but some water drops, nothing but illusion. What was a cloud anyway? It was nothing that mattered, nothing solid, nothing real. It was just the thought of something. He remembered a brother - Dave- a strict father, a mother, who had died too early. Even when he had been young "Home" had not felt like anything solid, nothing he could rely on, nothing he could draw any warmth from. Home at first had been a big house and a big ranch, but it lacked the meaning of the word "home" except that it had been the place where he had lived. There had been only cold there and so he had tried to make his home somewhere else for a while. Growing up, he had met Nancy - beautiful, wonderful Nancy with her wide smile and her chestnut hair. How he had loved her once, but maybe it had not been enough? She had had to compete with the sky and with the stars of course, with all that had made him a pilot. It had not been easy on her, he knew. But he wished, with all his heart, that he could fully understand why he had not been able to build her a home. Was it his own shortcoming? Hers? Theirs together? He did not wish for many things anymore, but he wished he understood, so badly.

No - He had no-one left at home. He had never had a home. He just had here. The moment. Now. The guys. The sky. The sand. The clouds. The wind. He had nothing else. He might as well have no family at home, for all the good it did him. His Dad hadn't been happy when he had joined the Air Force and he had not talked to him ever since. Dave...his brother...had somehow followed suit. Who was he kidding? Dave had always allied with Dad when it came to differences of opinion.

And thus he hated Christmas just a little bit, because he felt during the festive days how much he didn't belong. Who was he kidding- many others had someone who waited for them back home, someone who would grieve when they were gone. John knew that he had destroyed a lot of his relationships back home on his own, but still he couldn't help but feel the tiniest bit of jealousy on Christmas. It was surely nice to be missed like that by someone. But he couldn't help who he was. He had the sky. And that had to be enough. He had to stop wanting more. But it was hard, especially during these days, that were supposed to be merry and bright.

Holland came out to join him. He knew it was him because of the sound of his footfall and him clearing his throat quietly as he stopped next to Sheppard.

"What you thinkin' about?"

"Dunno," Sheppard replied, giving Holland a crooked smile. Holland was one of the few who understood at least a little. He had no family of his own either, though he had an on-off relationship with some girl called Diane back in the States. Nothing serious though, at least that had been his words. So, yeah, Holland did understand.

"Are you thinking of Mitch and Dex? 'Cause you couldn't have saved them. No one could have."

Sheppard wished Holland hadn't spoken of them; it opened up another can of worms entirely. Mitch and Dex, who had been two of his best buddies here, had been killed a few months ago. He really didn't want to think about it now.  
"No," he answered lowly. "Just thinking of here."

That seemed to be enough for Holland, who slung a friendly arm around Sheppard's shoulders. "Come on in," he said. "The party is already in full swing."

Oh right. Party. Sheppard knew that a few of the guys had smuggled in some beer, though they technically weren't allowed to drink. A beer sounded like a good idea at any rate.

"Sure," he agreed easily and allowed Holland to drag him back inside.

The party was really already in full swing. Some flashy lights had been put up; a dusty Santa was dangling from a hook in the corner. Music was coming from a radio. Sheppard, who knew that it was unlikely a commanding officer would come around since the brass half-knew about what they were doing and probably also really didn't want to know for the other part. As a Major he was technically one of the higher-ups, but that hadn't mattered to him anytime- he had always gotten along well with both the lower ranks and the enlisted men. Superior officers- mostly not so much. One had once told him that he was too much of a Maverick for his own good. Snorting to himself, he got a Budweiser and settled down in a corner. Rollins and Holland as well as some others joined him after a while.

"So what do you miss most about home?" Martin's question had been easy and so he got some light-hearted answers, ranging from "My Mom's apple pie" to "Our donkey". That last had earned the guy who had spoken some weird looks. "What?" he said and grinned widely.

Unsure if they had been wound up, they finally looked at Sheppard expectantly. He shrugged and grinned easily. "The girls," he said. Raucous laughter rose up from the table and a discussion arose over that last comment. Sheppard, however, caught Holland's eye and looked away. Holland looked too knowing for him to be comfortable.

The talk turned to their daily duties soon. "If I have to clean another _highly important_ piece of equipment belonging to one of your great choppers that takes me three hours, I'll go nuts," someone of the maintenance crew groaned.

Holland commiserated. "I have a mission next week. Again. Should be easy though, just a routine flight. I doubt you'll have to clean a lot."

Sheppard tried to shake the uneasy feeling that crept up on him, as Holland spoke of the mission. He shook his head. He was probably just spooked.

When it was already late and everyone was a little tipsy- as much as they could get from the little beer they had managed to bring to the base, the cheerfulness had worn off and a certain maudlin sentimentality had set in. "I miss my wife," Lieutenant O'Reilly half-slurred.

"Yeah…" Sergeant Ross agreed. His eyes were bright. "And my little girl. She's three this year and she's already gotten so big since I last saw her….Amy sent a picture last week."

 _ **Have yourself a merry little Christmas**_ , the voice of Frank Sinatra sang from the radio in the corner. As his comrades kept on reminiscing, Sheppard felt how his grin stretched and wavered _. I shouldn't be here_ , he thought nearly desperately.

The grin felt brittle, shaky. He was glad that no-one thought of speaking to him, lost in their own memories as they all were. He wasn't sure how long the grin would hold anymore since his mouth started to hurt and his eyes began to burn from the effort.

"I miss home," Captain Lee proclaimed suddenly and a chorus of "Yes" rose up from the tables.

Sheppard felt how his grin slipped. He took a deep breath and balled his fists underneath the table.

 _I am a clown_ , he thought.

* * *

 _ **Atlantis, Christmas 2004**_

They had found themselves a large Christmas tree which was standing a little askew in the mess hall. Due to a lack of baubles, they had put up everything on it that they had found. As a result, the tree looked very colorful. The Athosian children were fascinated by it. For the moment, though, Ford, Teyla, Sheppard and Rodney sat around a table, enjoying the Pegasus variant of turkey. The turkey was a bit different. It had bluish-purple meat. Rodney hadn't wanted to eat it at first- bluish-purple meat!- but after Carson had assured him that it was safe and after seeing the others dig it in, he had done so too.

He didn't want to look like a coward at any rate and if they all died of food poisoning they could at least claim that it had been an exotic turkey with bluish-purple meat. Hold on. What if Carson was wrong and the meat could not be digested by humans? Rodney froze, fork half-way to the mouth and looked up to meet the quizzical look of Sheppard. Thankfully, he got spared, because Ford broke the quiet.

"So what has been your favorite Christmas ever?" Ford asked with a full mouth, the innocent question reminding Rodney of just how young the Lieutenant was. 25- it had been over ten years ago that he had been 25, but it really felt like a lifetime. He caught John's eye and thought that the Major wore the same grim look that Ford wouldn't be able to understand. Ah, the privilege of youth.

Ford grinned widely, not waiting for an answer and showing white teeth. "My grandma always makes apple pie on Christmas and everyone likes it except for my grandpa. He never shows it thought, sits through and eats it, but we know. He would never say though, but when my grandma found out she-"

Rodney looked around. Teyla was smiling, her face giving nothing away of what she was really thinking. Sheppard looked…Rodney thought it was hard to describe. His eyes were fixed on Ford and an almost wistful light was in them. As if he was not really seeing the Lieutenant, but rather looking through him. However, that could be falsely interpreted, too. Rodney wasn't good at reading people, or better, he didn't get people.

He got math, numbers, calculations, anything that made sense. People, although merely a highly complex machine controlled by electrochemical impulses in his book, didn't make sense most of the time. McKay had tried to figure them out once and when he had failed for the n-th time- a resounding slap had been, years ago, his last girlfriend's answer to his thesis that she was governed by deeply-ingrained instinctual behavior patterns and oddly enough she hadn't taken the truth so well- he had given up. Just like that. Bang. Dr Rodney McKay didn't get people.

But strangely enough, he often got John Sheppard. Rodney really didn't get people, especially not gun-toting "Hey this is cool, 'cause it is speedy and can fly", messy-haired Air Force Majors. But somehow, he got John Sheppard. It was not as if he had planned it, but there were enough traits that they shared, not something he had been comfortable with initially. It was one thing to hide from your own flaws, but another if they were so glaringly obvious on other people - for him at least, which was a surprise in itself, because, well, Rodney really _really_ didn't get people.

Of course Rodney was not talking of half-brained "No-one's gonna die because I will sacrifice myself"-actions the Major was so keen on. What he had discovered was far simpler: Sheppard wasn't good with people either. Not in the obvious hostile and abrasive way that Rodney wasn't, it was a bit more complex, done with Sheppard-y typically twisted logic. Sheppard's strategy was to keep everyone at arm length. Rodney wasn't sure which one of the two strategies was the better one in the end, something he had to concede to Sheppard.

So when Ford's question was cast adrift and when the Lieutenant, oblivious to it all, chattered on about his grandparents, Rodney chanced a look at John. Sheppard was looking right back at him, but suddenly looked down, seemingly uncomfortable. He kept his look on Sheppard's face until he was sure that it had at least to tingle, if not to burn. Sheppard finally looked up again and Rodney's eyes bored blue holes into him, until the Major eventually gave him a smile. Not one of those sarcastic little half-grins of his or the smile that accompanied a derisive snort, but a real genuine smile. Rodney smiled back at him.

"Have yourself a merry little Christmas…" Rodney nearly started as the familiar tune came out of the radio next to Teyla. He must have shown signs of unrest, because Teyla turned her brown-eyed gaze to him. "Is something wrong, Doctor McKay?"

"No, I just-" Rodney broke off, as it occurred to him that he had never heard the song in its full length. He smiled as he listened. The song, he discovered, didn't carry such a bad and pessimistic message after all as he'd initially believed. Maybe he had just heard it to the wrong time at first and maybe he had only listened to what he had wanted to hear. Realizing that Teyla still expected an answer from him, he exhaled slowly.

"Now here's a great song," Rodney eventually said quietly. He didn't expect someone else to understand anything beyond the words he had said.

Sheppard, however, caught his eye. He said nothing. He merely nodded.

Silence fell over their table, though it was not an uncomfortable silence.

The silence spoke to him this time and he was sure that John heard it too. It answered Ford's question and it said: "Here. Now."

 **Finis**


End file.
